Bitter Resentment

I've stepped on a ball, and it's starting rolling. I guess the town here has had a bit of a bullying problem, but everyone either has their hands tied, or they're too lazy to do anything about it, so they just sweep it under the rug.

I've been on both sides of the fence. I've been bullied, and I've been the bully, and all I can say is... seriously? You're solution to the problem is to just laugh it off? Maybe that's the problem, is the problem solvers have last all their balls, and the only thing they can come up with to keep from bloody murder happening is to grin and take it on the other cheek.

I didn't. I'm sure it caused my mother no end in grief that I was always getting in scraps at school. Pardon me, but I don't roll over and play dead. The principals I've known were always lecturing me not to "provoke," my attacker. Pardon me twice, but when my mere existence is provocation enough for an altercation, what choice do I have? The mentality that he who punches back is just as guilty as the aggressor is deserving unto itself a swift blow to the teeth.

Children are miserable. That's why I hate them. There are times when I'm ten again, and all I see are these miserable little pieces of shit, playing out their Lord of the Flies drama on the set of the schoolyard, lording over each other like little Hitlers invading their own pint sized Polands.
The girls were the worst. They'd come up and call you bad names, pull your hair, and spit in your face. But since they were girls, you don't dare hit back. They'd do all kinds of miserable and demeaning things to each other and to me. In the hierarchy of the schoolyard, the shy, smart kids were always bottom of the totem pole.

God, how I wished I knew what nuclear bombs and guided missiles were at that point in my life. That's the revenge of the intellectuals. The aggressive stupid children make for excellent brawlers, but nobody knows war... knows intimate suffering, better than a kid who's gone through life ridiculed and bullied for his pursuit of knowledge. Geeks. Nerds. You idiots. You're talking down to the people who, at the pinnacle of their pursuits, could build a device that would well acquaint you with your subatomic particles.

And then, of course, everyone grows up, and everyone forgets. Well, not quite everyone. Going through a virtual young lifetime of bullying, you never forget. You never forget exactly what people tell you. You don't forget faces, or the expressions of hate and disgust they showed. You never forget the names of your suppressors. They bump in to you years down the road and say "Hey man! I haven't seen you in ages! How's it going?" and of course, you can reply with their first, middle and last name, what classes you were in, and in the midst of wanting to rip their lower mandible off, you manage to strike up a quasi-interesting conversation.

Of course, the girls are the worst. They come back years later, and instead of pulling my hair or spitting on me, or writing obscenities on my forehead, they sidle up, comment on how good I look, and wonder what I'm doing on the weekend. Not you, bitch. Not you. How they can so quickly forget; they went from utter revulsion to utter lust compulsion... I just hate them. I'm still that ten-year old kid who's permanently wary of advances, because they're all fake. Illusions and games meant to throw me off guard, so they can pull some practical joke. And then they can all laugh, while inside a little bit of me gets a little bit more twisted up.

See, the years go by, but that shit sticks with you. Instead of a childhood, I had a 24-hour vigil of looking over my shoulder. Instead of laughing and telling jokes, I learned the nuances of sarcasm and became a recluse at an early age, just so I could get away from those rotten kids. I don't forgive that kind of stuff. Kids can be kids, but monsters can be monsters too. And it's not like I had any safe haven to run back to either. Home was just another battlefield, and now that I'm out here, there are times when it almost feels like I've got my guard down enough to relax.

Almost.

So go ahead. Laugh it off, lazy fucks. There's already been death threats and physical altercations. What are you going to say when one of the kids dies or commits suicide? You didn't see it coming? What are you going to tell Johnnie's new wife when she asks why he won't talk about his childhood? That he's quiet and shy? Or are you going to tell her that Johnnie's punishment for doing well in class used to be getting beaten to unconsciousness by all the boys and their belts? What are you going to tell Jill's friends when she has to move to another province to escape the threats on her life?
What are you going to do when Al snaps and comes to school with a chainsaw to settle the score?

Nothing. Because that's all you're good for.